


The One With The History Channel Marathon

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Humanstuck, Knitting, Multi, thats literally it. just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: This is like your throne, and Eridan and Sollux are perched against the armrests like your loyal yarn-wielding knights in argyle sweater-vests and wear-softened flannel.Or your bitches. They’re a little more like your bitches.





	The One With The History Channel Marathon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thescyfychannel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/gifts).



> okay so there was this one scene in friends (which my girlfriend was like HEY LET'S WATCH THIS and, like a fool, I agreed) where monica was knitting and rachel was winding a ball and chandler was the one with the skein around his hands and it was ADORABLE, they like, scooted to the door and back, in a great long yarn chain??  
> anyway. please. please, I beg of you. adorable, cute, knitting shit, with erifefsol?? links included for inspiration, thank you, so much.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HI1IFODR-4U  
> http://uncutfriendsepisodes.tripod.com/season1/116uncut.htm (search the word "knit")  
> -  
> girlfriend here. no ragrets
> 
> EDIT: [there's art of this now!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/483440200790442033/492445788325019659/auxanges-erifefsol2.png) thank you to lightingupthereef!

“I’m tellin you,” Eridan insists to whichever of you is listening, and you feel you must specify because sometimes it’s both and sometimes it’s neither, “the Huns have this one in the bag.”

“And I’m telling you that’s projection,” counters Sollux.

“How is it projection? I don’t have any Hunnish ancestry.”

You are all seated on your couch— _seated_ denoting the array of arms and legs battling for room on your teeny sofa. When Karkat comes over, he bemoans the fact that you have a perfectly good and noticeably larger couch adjacent to this one, but this is like your throne, and Eridan and Sollux are perched against the armrests like your loyal yarn-wielding knights in argyle sweater-vests and wear-softened flannel.

Or your bitches. They’re a little more like your bitches.

Purl two. “I agree with Sollux,” you decide.

“ _Thank_ you—”

“But not about the projection thing!”

“Damn.” He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug: his hands are occupied, combing your bundle of tangles like it’s the most interesting puzzle in the world. Every now and again, his eyes dart over the tops of his frames to listen in on your episode of _Deadliest Warrior_. There are entirely too many shows with “Deadliest” in the name, you think; where is the creativity on daytime TV?

You continue, counting your stitches between your thinking. “The Incans have endurance! Plus their weapons are light. I wouldn’t wanna swing a bastard sword around for more than two minutes while my enemy is just dancing around with bows and stuff.”

“Bastard swords were in the last episode.”

Eridan’s hands are held obediently in front of him, wrapped up in the unknotted gold skein you’re working your way through into a hat. Its twin is squashing down his curls in a midnight blue. Your boys are built tall and lean and essentially begging to be wrapped up in soft things. Neither complain about it more than the _don’t spend more money on that_ routine that usually winds down when the autumn wind picks up.

“Yeah, FF, bastard swords were in the last episode.”

“You’re a bastard sword.”

“Wow, what is this, third grade?” Sollux throws the ball of yarn at Eridan, who reflexively kicks it; you duck obligingly with a sigh as it unrolls under the coffee table towards the TV. Your cat comes slinking in to inspect the plunder.

Eridan’s foot is still midair, and he kind of wiggles it at her. “Morry, leave it be.”

Morrigan turns to sniff his foot, sneezes, then paws at the ball of yarn. When it unrolls a little more, she proceeds to go to fucking town.

Sollux stares at the mess of golden thread on the carpet hard enough that you wonder if it will catch fire. He opens his mouth—

“Shot not,” Eridan yells at the same time he does, and Morry jumps about a foot in the air.

You let out a sigh so dramatic it blows your curls from in front of your face. “If I’m getting it, this hat isn’t getting finished. We all have a duty to this beanie.”

“I already have my beanie.”

“Eridan James Ampora—”

“Ha! That’s not my middle name!”

The door opens with the predestined timing dreams are made of.

“Hey, KK,” says Sollux, who has somehow wrapped one arm around you in an effort to get at Eridan’s beanie. You flick his ear, and he kisses your cheek. Loser. “Can you get that ball of yarn for me?”

Karkat tucks his pizza box under one arm, the other hand on his hip as he closes the door with one foot. “That depends,” he answers, “are you bleeding out? Are you severely injured? Did Eridan and Feferi finally murder you and stuff you in the closet and this is your ghost visiting me with the last shreds of your iron grip on this mortal plane to ask for help?”

“No.”

“Then fucking get it yourself.” Karkat knocks on the coffee table, prompting you to remove your feet, and opens the pizza box. Eridan leans in for a slice, and Karkat bats his hand away. “What’s the magic word?”

“ _Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profu_ —”

“That’s the opening to the Aeneid, wiseass. Stop hanging out with my brother.” Karkat plunks down on the floor; Morry wanders over for the inevitable attention he’ll give her, the pushover. “Sollux, the ball of yarn is still there.”

“This is unfair.”

Eridan says, “What’s unfair is insinuatin the Incas have more than a snowball’s chance of winning when it’s obvious the Huns are about to give them the sack of Rome treatment.”

You have managed another row, by some cosmic miracle. “I’m shocked you don’t both starve to death.”

“Course we don’t, darlin, Kar brings us pizza.”

“I’ll bring you something else if you don’t leave me out of this.”

“I’m getting the yarn,” Sollux calls from where he’s apparently attempting to melt into the floor.

You ignore him, bum-scooching closer to Eridan and finally setting your project down. “You lazy butts! Maybe you should knit your own pizzas and bake your own hats.”

“Yeah, but yours are—hold up, what?”

“The yarn is in my sights.”

Morrigan yawns and curls up in Karkat’s lap. She’s got the right idea, but your optimal laps for curling in are slithering weirdly along the rug and occupied by golden thread. The latter is an easy fix, and you gently pull the yarn off his hands and thank him the way he likes best.

Eridan always relaxes easiest when you kiss him. Sollux kisses like he’s got something to prove, but will react much the same way, when you put your mind to it. It’s all parts of one wonderful whole, you like to think. Everyone has their own part in it.

You poet, you.

“The yarn has been acquired.”

“Thank you, Sollux! Now wind it up again.”

“Uh, cute, but that was an ordeal and I need pizza first. KK, be a man.”

Karkat relinquishes a slice of pepperoni-bacon goodness, well away from Morry’s Beans™. Satisfied, he settles closer to you, between your legs so you can play with his hair while Eridan plays with yours, temporarily pausing your project in favour of sustenance and algorithmic pan-historical duels.

“ _James_ ,” Eridan mumbles to himself between bites of pizza.

The Inca end up winning, and everyone decides they are okay with this.


End file.
